


Children of the Eighth Day

by Lacylu42



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2281764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lacylu42/pseuds/Lacylu42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was an odd sort of arrangement to have when you woke with something foul stuck to your head and knew it to be an invitation to lunch. </p><p>"Man is not an end but a beginning. We are at the beginning of the second week. We are children of the eighth day."  ~Thornton Wilder.</p><p>An AU story (from OotP on...) about what might have happened if Harry and Draco were forced to fight the war on the same side. </p><p>Rating for language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Turn About's Fair Play

When Draco awoke on Sunday morning, there was toothpaste in his hair.

Not the normal kind, either. It was some sort of garishly turquoise Muggle monstrosity which had been carefully applied in artful loops and swirls all around the crown of his head. A great quantity of it had also smeared onto his satin pillowcases, and he was fairly certain that the House Elf who had been stoking the fire when he woke was also trying desperately not to laugh. He could tell by the way she kept stabbing herself in the foot with the poker.

His whole head reeked of spearmint, and when he trudged into the bathroom to survey the damage, the mirror began to snicker.

"Potter," he growled.

It had started rather maliciously in their last year at Hogwarts, though he couldn't remember who had perpetrated the first atrocity. Billywig stings in his breakfast cereal, which begat Fire Slugs in Potter's satchel, which begat itching powder in his shampoo, which begat sleeping draughts in Potter's pumpkin juice, which begat half of a Flobberworm still twitching in Draco's bed.

That had been the piece de la resistance. The declaration of war.

Of course, after that, they had all gotten rather preoccupied with the actual war...

Draco scowled the mirror into silence and waved his hand at the tub compelling the hot water to spill into the porcelain with a rush of steam. "I'll need as many oranges as you can find. At least three dozen. Right away," he said to the limping House Elf as he turned to shut the bathroom door, "and cancel my morning appointments." He glanced back at the mirror and shook his dentifrice decorated head. "Something's come up," he murmured.

It was an odd sort of arrangement to have when you woke with something foul stuck to your head and knew it to be an invitation to lunch. The blue gel he was currently soaking out of his hair told him that Potter was back from Africa with more certainty than if he'd received the news in the man's own hand.

An odd sort of arrangement indeed. Especially because he wouldn't dare call it a friendship. Not even to himself.

What had started as rivalry had morphed into blind hatred over the years. The kind of hate it is only possible to feel when one is terribly young, when everything is a matter of life and death, and when passion boils beneath every word, every action, every look. He remembered all too well that deceptively cheerful sunny morning when old Dumbledore had stared at them across his desk and informed them that they would have to put aside their hatred for the greater good.

Like asking a raven to stop being black. Impossible.

Dumbledore had too much faith in his fellow man even then, even when his fellow man was a pair of angst-filled teenage boys who would just as soon have hexed each other into hospital as shared the same breathing space. Too much faith by half.

And yet...

That was when the pranks had begun. Because they could not lash out at one another in public, they did so in private, leaving roaches in the chocolate box and dungbombs in the inkwells; simple pranks, childish at first, then increasing in severity, bordering ever closer to dangerous or even reckless. A public humiliation, a private slight, a series of machinations in a sinister game of one-upmanship to decide who was the better man.

A magical pissing contest, if truth be told.

And then there was no more time for games. Dumbledore, in his infuriating ineffability, had guessed correctly once again. Oh, he had tried to explain it when it was all over; put it down to some ridiculous self-fulfilling prophecy more ancient and more obscure than even Voldemort's hoards would investigate. A load of fairytale hoo-ha Draco had thought at the time, but it had worked. Two halves of a whole. Two sides of a coin. A yin and a yang. They even looked the part; one with his absurdly noble expressions and appallingly anarchic black hair, and one always cool and calculating under silver white blond. The four houses united under not one, but two leaders.

Because Salazar himself would have climbed from his crypt and done the Highland Fling before his namesakes would have followed Potter.

Draco, on the other hand, had been born to be a prince. He simply wasn't wearing the mantle he had always assumed was his.

Life, as they say, went on. The world rebuilt itself in much the same way it was before. There was no great revolution, no sweeping reforms, and while talking about "purity" was now dreadfully passé, blood was still what counted in the right circles. The children of the war had earned their N.E.W.T.s in life, were given their ticker tape parades, and slunk off to nurse the wounds that no one could see. They had survived -- mostly intact. Mostly whole.

But because there were parts of them still missing, parts still not whole, it had somehow not seemed strange when one morning, months after he'd sold the Manor and purchased a more fashionable flat, months after the reporters stopped banging on his windows and the paparazzi only flashed their cameras at him when he went out to the clubs, months after he thought he'd put them all behind him, he woke with his living room filled from wall to wall with Bubotuber plants squirting pus all over his leather sofa, antique armoire, and bewildered kitchen staff.

Later that day he'd received an invitation to lunch at the Ritz. Such was Potter's way of saying hello.

Scrubbing the last of the water from his head with a clean towel, Draco glanced at himself in the mirror. He had chosen his best black suit with a black silk turtleneck and his damp hair stood up in the perfectly mussed style that was currently in vogue. He'd joked at their last encounter that Potter's hairstyle had finally come into fashion.

He was rather annoyed to note, however, that not even his most expensive aftershave could completely mask the clinging minty fresh scent.

In the living room, the House Elves had dutifully left several large wooden crates of oranges for him. He glanced at his watch even as he drew his wand and smiled. With a flick of his wrist, the fruit disappeared, and Draco fancied he could almost hear the outraged yelling amid the staccato of fruit cascading down on Potter's head as he drank coffee in the kitchen of his dismally homey flat. It was Draco's way of accepting the invitation.

Because turn about, after all, is simply fair play.


	2. Lessons Learned

Two identical pops echo in the empty shop, and Remus barely looks up from his accounts.

"Hullo boys. Back so soon?"

"Watch it Fred!" George snaps as Fred almost walks into a rack of novelty Howlers. His twin is clutching an enormous box and practically overbalances when he tries to shift directions. Remus has, over time, learned to tell the boys apart most of the time, though if pressed he would never be able to exactly say how. But sometimes, even the boys themselves get confused as to who is who. George whips his wand out of a specially designed holster at his hip and quickly levitates the box towards the back stairs.

"Lupin!" Fred cries, as though he has only just noticed him. He saunters across the little room shedding bags and parcels as he goes and ends up leaning heavily on the counter, smiling up at Remus from under a scraggly ginger beard. It suits him in the rugged explorer persona he and his brother are currently trying out. "How's business?"

"Slow," Remus says with a shrug. "But things will pick up once the Hogwarts letters go out and the school shopping begins. How were the Galapagos?"

"Brilliant," Fred answers with a wistful smile. "Bloody amazing tortoises."

Remus raises an eyebrow at him, but he has learned not to ask. The answers would at best give him a migraine and at worst make him an accomplice. Fred runs a hand through his hair, which is so badly in need of a trim it would give Molly fits, and begins rummaging about in one of the many pockets in his trousers, producing a growing pile of odd objects including three dungbombs, a packet of Droobles Best Blowing Gum, a compass with the letters Q, R, L, X, and P on it, a small polished stone, two Muggle paperclips, a wad of string, and a vast quantity of little scraps of parchment all covered in Fred's unmistakable chicken scratch.

Remus steals one of the paperclips, sucks thoughtfully on the end of his quill, and tallies up another column. Another thing he has learned is to sneak his work into any lull that presents itself. Such moments are few and far between when the boys are around.

"Got it all squared away," George says, coming down the stairs like the entire drum line of a marching band. "Gave it some lettuce as well and -- er... Hullo Lupin."

Remus smiles innocently at George and pretends not to have heard anything out of the ordinary. "George. Does your mum know that you're back?"

"Not yet," George replies, hopping up to sit on the edge of the counter. "She'll want to have everyone over, and we'll need several pints and a good 18 hours of sleep before we can even think of facing up to that."

Remus chuckles in agreement as he carefully moves his inkwell away from George's drumming fingers. Molly's "get togethers" are infamous among the Weasleys and their extended clan; seven children, four spouses, and six grandchildren of various ages, not to mention all the strays that the family has adopted over the years. Himself included.

There had been a time when he would have shunned being taken in as a charity case, a cause celebre, adopted, as it were, because Molly thought he was underfed and underloved. There had been a time when he had found her mother hen routine grating and out of place, no matter how well meaning. He had learned, however, that family could mean a great deal more than blood -- and one of the things it meant was putting up with Molly-coddling.

He has been a part of the Weasley clan for nearly ten years now, he muses. He was, in fact, most probably a part of it long before he even realized it; before he had used his power as executor and invested a large chunk of the bequeathed Black family fortune in Weaselys' Wizard Wheezes under Sirius' name, before he had taken over the management of the storefront for the boys, before the war, before Harry was out of school, even before the Department of Mysteries and Grimmauld place...

"What are you--"

"I can't find the--"

"In your pocket, you daft--"

"No shit, Salazar. Can't you see that I'm--"

"Third pocket down on the -- your other left!"

"Oh. Right then."

Having located the correct pocket, Fred extracts a globe a little larger than a tennis ball from its depths and sets it gingerly on the counter. It is made of glass and filled about half way with crystal blue water. Floating in the middle is a tiny island; a speck of green and brown, of hill and valley, forest and shoreline, stone and sand. It is perfect in every minute detail from the infinitesimal white-capped waves lapping lazily at its shore to the impossibly small plants and trees and the microscopic specks circling above that might possibly be birds. Remus stares at it in fascinated wonder.

"It's a replica," Fred says proudly.

"Of Wolf Island," George finishes. "We saw it..."

"And thought of you."

Remus picks up the globe with reverence and holds it closer to his face, trying to make out every tiny detail. "Thank you," he murmurs.

The twins grin triumphantly at one another and slap him heartily on the back.

"You're welcome!"

"Least we could do."

"For minding the store."

"And for all the pints you're going to buy us."

Remus laughs easily. "Don't tell me. Let me guess: all your money is still in --"

"Magoros" George says with a nod, pulling out a handful of strange Ecuadorian wizard gold and letting it spill onto the countertop.

"Don't make us go to Gringotts, Moony," Fred says with baleful puppy dog eyes. "The goblins frighten George, so." He and George are the only ones who call him that any more, and only in private. Harry still gets a slightly pinched look about him when he hears the old nicknames. But it seems fitting somehow, that these two hooligans should be on a first name basis with the last of the Marauders, and Remus has learned to look at it as a sign of the world coming full circle.

"Get this junk off my clean counter top and let's go," Remus says with a grin and a shake of his head. "And you two are buying the pints next time." Fred begins scooping the unimaginable detritus back into his pockets and George leans forward to tousle Remus' silver hair like an affectionate older brother, despite the difference in age.

"Last one to the Cauldron is a wet noodle!" George shrieks, leaping off the counter. Fred shoots out a foot and trips his brother who falls with a spectacular lack of grace into the display of Howlers. Several red envelopes slide out of the bottom rack and begin shouting as soon as they hit the floor. The familiar voice of the Minister of Magic booms out across the shop in chorus.

George stomps on one while Fred freezes another and Remus vanishes two more.

"Oh, shut up, Dad!" George groans, muffling the last with a silencing charm and a sigh. "He had entirely too much fun helping us with those."

The boys scramble out of the shop ahead of him like a ginger tornado while Remus flicks his wand at the door to lock up. He glances up at the purple and gold sign and sighs deeply. In the next few days he will be back around a table with all the people he loves. He will not worry tonight that there will be an empty place at table. He will not spend hours fretting over the safety of his friends' children, nor making plans for what might happen when... or if... He saunters down the cobblestones towards the warm light of The Leaky Cauldron and wonders at the fact that somehow, after all these years, it seems as though Remus Lupin has finally learned how to live. Again.


	3. The Best of Both Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Draco accepts an invitation to lunch.

Harry was on his belly on the kitchen floor scrabbling about under the sideboard with his wand, trying to retrieve the last of the hailstorm of oranges which had so rudely interrupted his morning coffee. He had just cornered the last one when he heard a pop from the next room.

"Harry?" Remus' voice called from the other room. "Harry, I hope I'm not intruding, I just -- good Godric!"

"Accio orange," Harry said, and the fruit flew the last few centimeters into his outstretched fingers. With a satisfied grunt, he pushed himself up off the floor to find Remus standing over him, hands in pockets and a highly amused smirk on his face.

"Having trouble with your breakfast?" Remus asked, glancing pointedly at the pile of oranges on Harry's breakfast table. Most were in varying stages of destruction, having fallen quite unexpectedly from the ceiling. All were bruised, if not split open, and some were oozing.

"No," Harry replied evenly as he placed the last orange with the rest of the massacred fruit on his table. "No, I have a feeling they were behaving exactly the way they were meant to."

Remus raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. Harry knew that working with Fred and George had given his old friend a uniquely jaded view of anything even remotely unusual.

"Coffee?" Harry asked, gesturing with one hand to the half-full pot still on the stove. "Or I can make tea if you'd rather."

"Coffee's fine."

Harry busied himself pouring the coffee while Remus selected and began peeling one of the least offensive oranges.

"I come bearing messages from the clan Weasley," Remus said when Harry handed him his coffee. He drew out one of the mismatched wooden chairs and made himself comfortable. "Molly wants to know if you're bringing anyone with you to dinner tonight."

Harry groaned and sunk down into a chair opposite. "Tell her that I won't come at all if she's going to go down that road again."

Remus laughed. "You tell her. I'm not touching that one with a ten foot wand."

"Git."

"Coward."

Harry grinned and took a swig of his coffee. "You didn't come all the way here to call me a coward."

Remus shook his head. "The boys want to have a board meeting."

"You didn't come to tell me that, either."

Remus shrugged.

"A board meeting, eh? Sounds like they've got something new up their sleeves."

"I couldn't say," Remus said blandly, stacking his orange peels neatly on the edge of the table. "You know, I think they still see me as some sort of authority figure. They never tell me anything until it's... too late."

Harry grinned. "When do they want to get together?"

"Tonight. After dinner, if you're available."

"At the Leaky Cauldron?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer. "Who's buying?"

"Do I really need to tell you?" Remus replied, popping an orange section into his mouth. He looked pleasantly surprised. "These are quite good."

Harry snorted. "A Malfoy only sends the very best."

"You can't expect me to let that one slide," Remus said with a wry smile. "What did you do?"

Harry couldn't help but grin at his own cleverness. "I put toothpaste in his hair. Blue toothpaste."

"You can take the boy out of Gryffindor..." Remus said with a shake of his head.

"Or Slytherin," Harry replied, setting the coffee mugs in the sink. "There's a reason that fruit normally arrives in baskets and not by air. I might very well have a concussion."

Remus regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "Harry, are you ever going to tell the others that you're still in contact with him?"

Harry grew still watching the water swirling around the scratched basin. "I..." He searched for the right words. "I don't think they would understand." He glanced over his shoulder at his friend. "Fuck," he added with a lopsided grin. "I'm not even sure I understand."

"You should give them more credit," Remus said frankly, standing from the table. "I'd better go. I assume you have your reservations." He glanced at Harry. "For lunch, I mean."

Harry leaned against the sink, his face suddenly solemn. "Remus, I know what you came here to ask--"

Remus held up his hand. "Plenty of time for that after our 'board meeting'."

Harry nodded curtly and watched Remus disappear from his kitchen with a loud pop.

Feeling unusually pensive, Harry made his way to the wardrobe in his bedroom to select appropriate clothing for lunch. He quickly abandoned the search, however, as Malfoy would mock whatever he chose anyway.

Once dressed, he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Wide green eyes stared back at him from an unfamiliar face. He ran a hand over his chin where, for the last three weeks, a thick black beard had been. He should have kept it, he mused. People might not have been so quick to spot him in his African safari guise.

He deliberately put on black shoes with his brown suit just to make Malfoy's hair stand on end, even though it was likely to earn him a twenty minute lecture.

Such was the nature of their friendship.

If someone had told him five years ago that he would make a habit of inviting his worst schoolyard enemy to lunch whenever he was in town, he would have either laughed at them until he was blue in the face or hexed them into the next week, depending on his mood. Yet now it was second nature. The only hard parts were getting the reservation and thinking up a new prank.

Harry wandered back into the living room of his flat, smiled at the familiar squashy furniture and shelves full of books, scowled at the gargantuan pile of mail waiting for him on the floor by the window, and promptly ignored it.

People still wrote fan letters to the Boy Who Lived. He didn't know how to tell them that that Boy didn't Live here any more. Most went into the fire unwanted, unopened, and unread.

He had asked Malfoy once if he got any letters. Draco was as much a celebrity at the end of the war as Harry had been. The papers had made much of his story, painting him as a fairy tale prince eschewing the path of evil to become Harry Potter's right hand man.

Harry still had one of those articles saved somewhere. He took it out to read it when he needed a good laugh.

And Malfoy had hated it. Hated it with almost as much passion as he hated Harry. Almost as much passion as he hated his own crisis of conscience. Almost as much as he hated what his father had become.

Malfoy had told him that fallen princes don't get fan mail.

Harry snatched one of the few oranges that was still in one piece and grabbed his wand.

With a loud crack echoing in his ears, he Apparated to an alley he knew off of Piccadilly and walked the remaining distance to the Ritz.

Watching his lunch companion approach from over the top of his menu, Malfoy made a point of scowling, and he made an appropriately surprised and horrified face when Harry tossed him an orange before taking his seat.

"I'm going to be black and blue for weeks."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about. And I'm sending you my cleaning bill."

Harry just smirked.

For a moment, they stared at one another across the little table, and Harry felt the old tension building up inside him. Not for the first time, he wondered why he thought these lunches were a good idea. He always suspected that this would be the time that he was left sitting alone drinking ice water in the Palm Court, that this would be the time Malfoy would say something to end this game they were playing at.

"I assume by the look on your face that either you once again failed to find what you were looking for," Malfoy drawled, laying his menu across his plate, "or that you had some bad fish last night for supper."

Harry began to relax. "If I knew what I was looking for, I might have an easier time finding it."

Malfoy shrugged eloquently. "Maybe the act of looking is enough. We are Seekers, after all."

Harry took a sip of the wine Malfoy had already ordered. It was excellent.

"How the devil did you get in, anyway?" Malfoy asked suddenly.

Harry smiled to himself. It was always the same. "You always have to know, don't you?"

Malfoy's lip curled into a sneer. "If there is a weak point in the defenses on my flat, I think I have a right to know about it."

"Your defenses are crap, Malfoy." Harry grinned. "And you have to face it: I'm much better at Defense than you ever were."

"Fine. Don't tell me."

While Malfoy sulked and pretended to read his menu, Harry studied him. His hair was shorter than he had been wearing it before, perfectly tousled in a way that Harry, with his naturally unruly locks, could never hope to imitate. Malfoy made fashionable clothes look casual and sipped expensive wine like it was water. He was at home here in all this luxury, while the starched linen, elaborate centerpieces and polished silver made Harry feel like a scruffy orphan again.

The waiter returned, but before Harry could open his mouth, Malfoy had ordered for them both. Harry raised an eyebrow at him as the waiter traipsed away with their menus.

"You need to expand your palate." Malfoy said by way of explanation.

Harry scowled, but only to hide his amusement. "Yes Professor Higgins."

Malfoy shrugged. They stared at one another across the table for a long moment before Harry broke the silence, as he almost always did.

"I need to liquidate some of my assets, and I need your advice about which ones. The twins have got something new up their sleeves and they want to have a meeting about it -- which can only mean that it's going to be expensive."

"And you're willing to foot the bill yet again?" Malfoy asked disdainfully.

"They've done well so far. I've had excellent returns on my investments with them, even by your standards."

Malfoy sighed audibly, which was a sign that he had no way to refute what Harry said. "Find out how much they want and let me know," he said finally, as though the very words were painful.

"I'll also need some more cash. I'm planning a trip to--" Malfoy looked up sharply. "What?" Harry asked him.

"You've only been back in England for -- what, two days? -- and you're already planning another trip?" He leaned back in his chair, holding his wine glass in the cup of his hand and throwing his other arm over the back of the chair. "Where to this time? Tibet? Antarctica? Japan?"

"America," Harry said tersely. "There's a sect in Salem that's been rather active lately, and there are rumors of necromancy."

Malfoy stared at him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. "Why?" he asked at last.

Harry shrugged. "Why does anyone practice necromancy? I expect some--"

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Malfoy interrupted.

Harry frowned slightly, suddenly unable to meet Malfoy's cold penetrating stare. "I have to be sure," he said at last in a low voice.

"You killed him," Malfoy replied bluntly. "One would think that would be certainty enough."

"There was no body," Harry argued. "If there had been a body, I could have torn out his heart and burned it to ash right along side the rest of him. I could have dumped the ashes in different seas at opposite ends of the Earth. I could have been sure."

"That's a bit obsessive, even for you," Malfoy said blandly.

Harry was about to reply when the waiter reappeared with their first course. For a few moments, they filled the uncomfortable silence with the rituals of food, the scrape of silver on china, the rustle of linen. This was common ground, equal footing, territory not fraught with missteps and danger.

"This is quite good," Harry said around a mouthful. "What is it?"

Malfoy smiled indulgently, the way a parent might smile at a particularly obtuse observation on the part of a child. "Terrine of foie gras with Sauternes jelly and toasted brioche."

Harry blinked at him.

"Why do you come?" he asked suddenly. Malfoy looked up at him with a confused look. "When I invite you to lunch," Harry clarified. "Why do you come?"

Malfoy regarded him for a moment before answering. "I am afraid that if I don't I might wake up with a Flobberworm in my bed."

Harry winced slightly, but smiled. "That was a long time ago. You can't possibly still hold that against--"

"You'd be surprised," Malfoy replied quietly, looking down at his food.

"When was the last time you went out?" Harry demanded.

Malfoy gave him an incredulous look. "You change subjects faster than a Snitch changes directions."

"Answer the question, Malfoy."

"I went out last night, for your information," Malfoy answered in an unconcerned tone, "to the opening of a very important new club. It was dreadful."

"A Muggle club?"

"So?"

"When was the last time you went out with wizards."

The silence that stretched out for just a moment too long was answer enough for Harry.

"I choose," Malfoy said very carefully, "not to move in certain circles."

"You aren't your father, Malfoy," Harry said directly. "It's history. People forget."

"Oh really? The same way they forget that you were the Boy Who Lived?" Malfoy's sneer was vicious. "Tell me, how many fan letters were waiting for you at home after this particular trip? I expect they could keep you warm all winter at the rate you get them -- if you were ever home, that is." He pushed his plate away and set his fork at four o'clock. Lunch was over.

"I joined the revolution too late, Potter."

Harry watched the muscles tighten in the back of Malfoy's jaw -- the only indication that he was agitated. His cool manner betrayed nothing else.

"I denied you. I hated you."

"You saved me," Harry said simply.

Malfoy blanched. His grey eyes darted away and would not meet Harry's face. "Bad form throwing that back in my face," he said glibly. He snatched his wine glass and drained it in two large gulps. "Anyway," he continued, "fat lot of good that temporary insanity did me. They still put me on trial."

"Everyone knew it was a farce," Harry said dismissively. "You were never in any danger of being convicted."

"Why? Because you stood for me? I deserved Azkaban for some of the things I did."

Harry sighed. "I believe people can change."

"Do you really? How convenient that must be for you."

"I didn't believe it until you--"

"I almost didn't," Malfoy snapped. "I almost let you die."

Harry looked up and their eyes locked across the table. "I know," he said.

"You want to know why I'm here?" Malfoy asked, suddenly breaking the stare to watch the city outside the window. "Answer yourself. Why aren't you with Weasley and Granger?"

Harry shrugged. "I'll see them later tonight. Mrs. Weasley is making dinner for everyone."

"They are your two best friends in all the world. You haven't seen them in more than a month, yet you're sitting here dredging up old times with me," Malfoy said frankly. "Seems I'm not the only one avoiding certain company."

Harry scowled down at his lunch. Malfoy was right, of course, and that was always infuriating. He wasn't entirely sure why he was he at the Ritz instead of at the Burrow, why he always choose Malfoy's company before anyone else's during his brief stays in England.

But he did know. Some part of him did. Ron and Hermione had each other. Ginny and Neville had each other. Remus had his work with the twins. It was a bit much to be thrown back into their company all at once, expected to fit where he no longer belonged. A third wheel. A square peg.

"Decompression," he murmured under his breath.

"I beg your pardon?" Malfoy drawled.

"Come with me," Harry said suddenly. "To dinner tonight." Malfoy' pulled a horrified face and Harry sighed. "To the pub, then. Have a pint with Remus and me when we're done with business." Malfoy opened his mouth to protest, but Harry beat him to it. "If anyone understands what it's like to be an outsider, it's Remus," he said.

Draco stared at him, and Harry thought that it was the first time he had ever seen him look genuinely surprised.

"Come with me, Draco," he said again.

~

It was raining in London when Harry Apparated into an alley a few blocks from the Muggle entrance of The Leakey Cauldron. He preferred not to appear in crowded places unless it was absolutely necessary.

You're as bad as Malfoy he told himself as he turned up the collar of his jacket against the rain. The orange of the streetlights turned the droplets to fire as they fell, like tiny shooting stars.

Harry walked quickly, ducking his head in the rain, and he wouldn't have noticed the figure standing across the street except that a flash of movement caught his eye.

He was standing under a street lamp, head bowed, hands deep in his pockets, his black leather jacket glistening in the rain. Harry wouldn't have recognized him except for the shock of pale hair dripping into his face. Frowning into the darkness, Harry quickly glanced up and down the empty street before jogging across the blacktop towards him.

"Malfoy?" he called, not quite certain he could believe what he was seeing. Malfoy started at the sound of Harry's voice and looked up. He was soaked, and Harry wondered how long he had been standing there in the rain. His eyes narrowed, and he pulled one hand from his pocket to smooth back his dripping hair, shining silver in the lamplight.

With that gesture, Harry suddenly saw a flash of the boy Draco had once been, proud and sure, standing on a stool next to him at Madam Malkin's being fitted for his first set of school robes and tossing his name and family pride about like a Quaffle at a Quidditch match.

The man standing before him now was different; the intervening years had not been kind. He put on a face to the world the way he put on his expensive suits and affected arrogance, but in the rain, in the light of this streetlamp just barely driving back the darkness, Harry could see Draco's mask beginning to slip.

"I thought you weren't going to come," Harry said, forcing a light tone despite the tightness in his chest.

"I wasn't," Draco replied softly, his words almost lost to the staccato of the rain. He glanced up and met Harry's eyes. "But someone told me that people can change."

Harry grinned and threw an arm around Draco's shoulders, leading him across the street towards the Cauldron. "That's awfully convenient," he said.

Draco glanced up at him, his eyes cool and calculating, searching Harry's face for any hint of mockery or ire, but Harry knew there was none to be found.

"If I come in," he said slowly, "you have to stay."

"Of course! Did you think I was going to leave you alone with those idiots in--"

"I'm serious, Harry," Draco said, cutting him off. "No more trips. No more searching." He sighed and shrugged deeper into his coat. "It's time we both leave the dead to the dead."

A rush of emotions filled Harry all at once. They washed over him so quickly he could hardly put a name to the feelings. But a little voice in the back of his brain which sounded suspiciously like Hermione said simply, Let it go.

"I'm willing to try if you are," Harry said at last.

A smile played at the corners of Draco's lips. "I knew you couldn't resist a challenge."

The normally noisy pub was relatively quiet for the hour, but Harry could not help noticing several pairs of eyes trained eagerly on the newcomers. Potter and Malfoy. Dumbledore's favoured two. Together again for the first time.

Harry spotted two red heads and one grey one sitting at a quiet table set apart from the rest of the room, and he steered Draco towards them. The identical looks of unmitigated shock on the twins' faces were almost comical.

Only Remus seemed unsurprised. He rose as Harry and Draco approached, watching them with brown eyes glinting in the warm torch light. When they reached him, he smiled wryly.

"Welcome back, Harry," he said warmly. Harry grinned as Remus turned and extended his hand to Draco. "And welcome back Mister Malfoy."

Draco glanced at Harry for half a moment, and then accepted Remus' hand.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the darkest hour of the night, and their laughter fills the stairwell.
> 
> Harry shushes Draco with an exaggerated gesture. "M'neighbours!" he hisses, slurring his words together with a grin that still manages to be cocky, despite his inebriation.
> 
> "Bugger your neighbours," Draco replies with a sweep of his arm that threatens to catastrophically destroy what remaining sense of balance he has.

It's the darkest hour of the night, and their laughter fills the stairwell.  
  
Harry shushes Draco with an exaggerated gesture. "M'neighbours!" he hisses, slurring his words together with a grin that still manages to be cocky, despite his inebriation.  
  
"Bugger your neighbours," Draco replies with a sweep of his arm that threatens to catastrophically destroy what remaining sense of balance he has. For a moment he's disoriented, confused, unsettled. Where is he? How did he get ...?  
  
 _A pub. Red heads and laughter. Exploding sweets of some kind.  
  
A hand extended in friendship._  
  
A hand reaches out to steady him. "Right mate?" Harry asks, concern vying with focus for control of his gaze. Draco nods, uncertainly. Harry's hand lingers on his arm a moment too long. Too long. Too warm. Or maybe the alcohol only makes it seem so. Draco is suddenly nervous.  
  
"I should go home," he says as they climb the last few steps to Harry's apartment.  
  
"You'll splinch yourself," Harry replies, glancing over his shoulder as he fishes in the pocket of his trousers for his keys. His trousers are too tight. He can barely get his hand in his pocket. "You're drunk."  
  
"Am not," Draco replies defensively as he hurriedly averts his gaze in what he hopes is a haughty gesture. The effect is ruined, however, when he trips gracelessly on the top stair and almost collides with Harry on the landing.  
  
 _A quirking smile, a quick green glance, the casual bump of bodies loose with Firewhiskey--_  
  
"Well... you are too," Draco concedes at last.  
  
"Indubitably," Harry says, stumbling a little over the syllables. "Which is why I'm not Apparating. And neither are you." He holds up a little silver key that glints in the flat eklectric lights of the hallway. "You're staying here. Chez Potter."  
  
Draco snorts. "You're turning into a fucking Muggle, Potter. Dress like one. Drink like one. Even lock your bloody door like one," he observes as Harry tries desperately to fit the key into the lock. "If you were a proper wizard, you'd just charm it locked. Alakazam!" He waves his arm again, having forgotten what it did to him the first time, and inadvertently lurches forward until he is only a breath away from Harry's face...  
  
And then, it is too much. Too late.  
  
Their lips meet; soft, smooth, warm. A collision of bodies. A bump of skin. A huff of breath on his face. Hardly more than an accident, and yet... The sharp smell of alcohol and aftershave, of London rain and spicy sweet sweat all mingled.  
  
Harry pulls away.  
  
 _Eyes locking. A smoldering stare lit by the burn of Firewhisky in the blood--_  
  
Draco's limbs are not his own. Reason's left him completely and he's in some terrifying no-man's land of not caring that he's doing a very foolish thing.  
  
But it doesn't stop him. Not now when he has come so far, when he has traversed the incomprehensible distance between them to stand only a hair's breadth away...  
  
and ...  
  
 _Rough. Scratchy against his palm._  
  
This he knows. It is his never-more. The final piece of this clumsy puzzle. His last  _of course_ , and everything fits.  
  
His hands seem to know their way across this last stretch of separation, fingers curving just so, tracing the bump of sinew, the strain of muscle over bone, the line of his jaw until --  _there_  -- Harry tilts his head to meet Draco's palm, sighs into his touch, closes his eyes and --  _oh god_  -- leans in . . .  
  
And when at last they meet, it is as though a whole new  _yes_  is born. There's no longer hesitation between them, no guarded cool or reasonable doubt, and Draco is falling with sweet-tempered syllables against his lips that spell out  _here_ \--  
  
\--parted with this new desire to drink him in, to know him all, to want all this.  
  
He is falling, and Harry's fingers are playing rapid songs against wrist and cheekbone, collar and chest.  
  
He is falling, but Harry catches him as they stumble into the darkened flat. They do not bother with the light, and when Draco opens his eyes again, he is alone under blankets, curled against cushions and tired beyond what his body can endure.  
  
But he is not alone tonight.  
  
 _Harry is always there when he falls._


	5. An End and a Beginning

It is cold when Draco wakes. The chill grey light of dawn is filtering through a set of whisper thin white curtains. He groans and rolls onto his side, the stubble on his face scratching against the rough material of the old sofa on which he has been sleeping.  
  
Dim memories begin floating back to him like motes of dust on the sunbeams sifting through the haze in his mind, and the sticky taste of alcohol on his tongue helps him to remember.  
  
 _A pub. Red heads and laughter. Exploding sweets of some kind.  
  
A hand extended in friendship._  
  
Draco opens his eyes and drinks in his strange surroundings. He is in Harry’s flat, he realizes with some small shock. After more drinks than he cares to remember, he recalls stumbling down orange streets slick with rain, a faltering climb up the stairwell, tumbling into walls. With a frown he rubs his elbow, remembering. He remembers the click of Harry’s key in the lock, remembers mocking him for not using a spell, remembers...  
  
 _A quirking smile, a quick green glance, the casual bump of bodies loose with Firewhiskey--_  
  
Draco struggles into a sitting position. The couch, while not entirely uncomfortable, is sagging and old and smells faintly of dog and nostalgia. It sufficed for sleeping off a drunken stupor, but now he is wide awake and put off by its nubbly wool and lumpy cushions.  
  
He slides his bare feet across the polished wood floors experimentally relishing the cool sensation. It isn't a bad flat, all things considered; tall ceilings, large windows, very spacious. The furnishings, however, are disgustingly homey. Most are probably cast offs from various Weasleys, the rest undoubtedly the products of untold trips to second hand shops and street fairs. As the heir to two of the largest family fortunes in wizard Britain, he would have thought that Harry could afford to buy some good taste.  
  
Apparently, that is not the case.  
  
Rising from the sofa, Draco begins to wander. The pre-dawn light casts an ethereal glow over the room and, moving through it, he wonders if he is in a dream. He runs his pad of his thumb over the heavy mantel above the fireplace and lingers, fingertips hovering over each silver frame situated here in turn.  
  
In one, seven figures in Gryffindor red zoom through the frame, flying in formation over the Hogwarts pitch. In another, the entire Weasley clan smiles and waves idiotically in front of an enormous Christmas tree. Draco picks out a young Harry -- maybe sixteen years old -- smiling awkwardly at one end, and is surprised to see Remus Lupin looking out from behind Harry, as gaunt and pale as Death himself.  
  
He stops at the third photograph. In it, a handsome woman with long red hair beams happily, clinging to the arm of a dopey looking sot who can only be Harry's father. Draco is captivated by her as she laughs when the elder Potter whispers something in her ear. It's something about her eyes... Suddenly he realizes: they are Harry's eyes.  
  
She smiles too knowingly up at him from the past.  
  
Feeling slightly unnerved, Draco quickly moves to the last picture, but it too gives him pause. It is a photograph of Harry, Granger, and Weasley standing on the front steps of Hogwarts. They are laughing together, arms around one another, but Harry's smile looks false, as though an artist painted it on as a second thought. The expression never reaches his eyes.  
  
 _This must have been just before..._  Draco muses, when suddenly, Weasley turns and plants an enormous wet kiss on the side of Granger's head. She laughs as she turns to look at him. Draco watches in fascination as the three become two and one in a matter of moments.  
  
It is entirely too obvious to be at all in good taste. Draco is rather annoyed at himself for not having seen it before.  
  
"That," he says quietly to the photo, "explains quite a lot."  
  
Turning away from the photographs, Draco glances around the flat with new appreciation, wondering what other secrets are obscured by the tacky sofas and chintzy décor, what other memories sit, hidden in plain sight, under a veil of dust and time.  
  
 _Eyes locking. A smoldering stare lit by the burn of Firewhisky in the blood--_  
  
The kitchen, he finds, makes him ever so slightly nauseous, with its too cheery printed wallpaper, whitewashed wooden cabinets, and growling Muggle appliances. Draco doesn't spend much time in his kitchen at home, but he finds himself longing for the polished marble, gleaming steel surfaces, and willing domestic staff.  
  
It is far too early to risk whatever horrors might be hiding behind those cabinet doors, he decides. He shudders at the thought of finding Pot Noodles or tins of beans should he risk a look.  
  
He is at loose ends. He wonders if he should leave. The thought of disappearing without looking back, without admitting what has been said, what has been done, what is owed -- it isn't without its appeal, but he can't seem to settle on a plan of action. Odd thoughts meander through his brain as he wonders where his shoes have gotten to and whether his jacket made it back with him from the pub and whether or nor Harry takes cream in his tea...  
  
The staccato of his bare feet slapping against the polished floor is the only sound as he rounds the corner into the little hallway with the idea of possibly locating the loo. There are two doorways, and he chooses the one on the left.  
  
He chooses wrong.  
  
The bedroom beyond somehow has a more familiar feel than the rest of the house, and at first, Draco can't quite identify what it is. A large four-post bed dominates the room barely leaving space for an ancient wardrobe in one corner and a mismatched dresser in the other. At the foot of the bed, a second fireplace promises warmth to the cold room. Clothes and shoes litter the floor, and both the bedside table and the squashy red armchair next to it are piled high with an array of different books.  
  
It strikes him then, that this is the only room in the house that looks at all lived in. The others seem to be there just for show.  _Look at me. I'm adjusting. I have a dinning set and framed photographs and horrible taste in sofas. See how normal I am._  
  
Draco never had the dubious pleasure of visiting Gryffindor Tower, but he imagines it looked very like this.  
  
He stands in the doorway for far too long. It’s disgraceful, really, but somehow he can’t look away.  
  
Harry is sprawled out across the middle of his king sized bed in an impossible tangle of limbs and bedclothes and idiotic black hair. He sleeps right in the middle, as though claiming the entire bed as his own.  
  
Growing up in a cupboard must do odd things to a person, Draco muses.  
  
He looks younger without his glasses. His face is calm, and Draco envies him that serenity; it is evident that Harry sleeps the undisturbed sleep of the righteous, a luxury that Draco has never enjoyed.  
  
~  
  
Draco makes a point of not looking at Harry when he enters the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his face. There is dark stubble shadowing his chin.  
  
 _Rough. Scratchy against his hand. He stumbles on the staircase and Harry is there to catch him. Harry is always there when he falls._  
  
"I made tea," he says, his voice too quick and too loud in the silence.  
  
"Fnrgh," Harry replies groggily. "Need coffee."  
  
"Coffee is for Americans and Muggles." Draco points at a mug on the table across from him. "Drink your tea."  
  
Harry scowls at him but drops down into the chair obediently anyway. He reaches for the sugar bowl and Draco raises an eyebrow. "Don't tell me that sugar is for Muggles too," Harry says irritably.  
  
Draco shrugs. "It won't help your hangover."  
  
"Speaking of which," Harry says as he helps himself liberally to the sugar, "how come you look like bloody fucking sunshine this morning? You had as much to drink as I had."  
  
"I don't get hung over," Draco replies with an elegant shrug. "Never have." Harry looks skeptical. "That," Draco continues reluctantly, "and I've been up for a good deal longer than you. I took a shower, by the way, if you want to have the bathroom firebombed."  
  
Harry snorts. "I imagine most of your bad influence washed off down the drain."  
  
An awkward silence descends. They stare at one another across the suddenly unfathomable distance across the breakfast table.  
  
"I have some cereal," Harry says suddenly. "Or bread for toast. That's about it." He manages to look appropriately embarrassed even through the haze of sleep still tenatiously clinging to him.  
  
"That's all right," Draco says quickly. "I should be getting home." He grabs his tea and finishes the dregs. "I'll have that money transferred to the Weasleys' account today, but remind them that if I'm going to be a stockholder in this venture I want the papers to go along with it. None of this grin and a handshake malarkey." He pushes his mug away and makes to stand. "You were right about them. Buying Zonko's is a good business move. We should all do... What?"  
  
Harry is staring at him intently.  
  
"Don't go," he says suddenly. "We can go to Diagon Alley, wake up the lads, and get some breakfast. Remus is a genius at hangover potions."  
  
"I would have thought I'd have worn out my welcome by now," Draco says, hoping his tone can be construed as nonchalant. "Even I can only stand my good looks and charm for so long..." He studies Harry carefully. "Haven't you anything better to do?"  
  
"Well, I was supposed to be planning a trip," Harry says wryly, "but I suddenly find I have a lot of free time on my hands."  
  
Draco summons the kettle and pours himself another cup of tea. Harry seems to relax a bit. "I suppose that's true. What  _are_  you going to do with yourself?" he asks, stirring cream into his tea carefully.  
  
Harry shrugs and stares down into his mug. "Get a job, I suppose."  
  
Draco snorts. "The prodigal son returns to the wizard world as a janitor."  
  
Harry laughs. "Sanitation engineer, surely." He reaches up and runs his hand through his hair, and his face suddenly falls into an expression of disgust. "Eurgh!" His hand is covered in blue toothpaste. "What the hell?"  
  
"Points off for lack of originality," Draco admits, with a shrug, "but I think I should get some creative merit." He smirks at Harry's horrified face.  
  
"It said 'Potter Sucks' before you went and ruined it."


	6. They Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way to make a man trustworthy is to trust him. ~Henry Stimson

The kettle started to whistle just as the floo roared to life.

"Remus?"

"Come on through, Bill." Remus marked his book and headed for the kitchen. He heard the woosh of the green flames, the stumble of enormous boots against the hearth, a muffled cough and the sounds of hands dusting ash from leather and denim. The clomp of Bill's footsteps followed him into the kitchen of his flat.

"Alright?" Remus asked, swirling hot water in the teapot before adding the leaves.

"Yeah." Bill dropped heavily into the nearest chair. "Just knackered."

Remus poured the hot water over the leaves, watching the brown trails they left as they spun, like droplets of blood in the water. He turned to face Bill, leaning against the counter as the tea steeped.

Bill rubbed a large, heavily freckled hand over his face. "Two fucking demons today," he grumbled. "And an entire moat of Grindylows. I hate those bastards." He glanced at Remus, a quirking smile playing at his broad mouth. "It's their fingers." He wiggled his hand at Remus. "Give me the creeps."

Remus snorted, reaching for two mugs to fill them with the warm brew.

“And the moon,” Bill added. “Takes it out of me. Like I’m being pulled apart from the inside.”

Remus turned and handed Bill a mug.

"Ta, mate.” Bill reached into his jacket and pulled out a flask — by the engravings and stones set in it, probably a souvenir from one of his cursebreaking jobs — and doused his tea liberally. Remus said nothing.

"Heard Harry's back in town," Bill said after a long pull from his tea. "He find anything?"

Remus shook his head. "I think he may have finally decided to stop looking."

Bill looked up sharply. "I wasn't going to mention this until after the moon," he said, "but I may have a lead for him."

Remus felt his fingers tightening around the mug. The warmth soothed the aching in his joints, but it was a momentary comfort.

"I know you disapprove," Bill said archly.

"I don't disapprove," Remus replied. "I understand obsession all too well."

Bill flushed and took another long drink of his tea.

“We missed you at dinner the other night,” Remus said, sipping his tea.

Bill hitched a shoulder without looking up, reminding Remus powerfully of a six-year-old boy at Order meetings, staring guiltily at the floor as his mother chastised him for making too much noise. “I’m sure you did fine without me.”

Remus wondered how much of that Bill actually believed.

“Should we go?” Bill asked.

Remus nodded, finishing his tea, mentally preparing himself for the strain of the night to come. Suddenly, the woosh of the floo interrupted his thoughts.

“Hello? Lupin?”

Remus raised his eyebrows and started to stand. Bill scowled and turned to follow.

Floating amid the green flames of Remus’ hearth, Draco Malfoy’s head squinted into the room.

“Hello, Draco,” Remus said, wincing as he dropped to his knees. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak with you,” Draco said. “May I come through?”

Bill had planted himself just out of view, arms crossed, a scowl etched across his scarred face.

“This isn’t the best time,” Remus said diplomatically. “Moonrise is in less than an hour.”

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about,” Draco insisted. “It will only take a moment.”

Curious, Remus shrugged his acquiescence and moved back from the fireplace.

With a familiar roar, Draco stepped through the floo, more graceful than Bill, his expensive leather shoes barely making a sound. He flicked a few flakes of ash from his jumper before he noticed Bill standing nearby.

“I didn’t realize you had company.” Draco returned Bill’s glare blandly. “I’ll be brief.” Without ceremony, he held out a glass decanter filled with a foul-looking liquid.

Remus stared at it. He hadn’t seen the potion in years, but he recognized it without a doubt. The twins had tried to brew it once, with disastrous results. He accepted the flask from Draco, watching the thick liquid inside swirl around hypnotically.

“What’s that?” Bill asked.

Draco raised an eyebrow, his expression inscrutable. “It is the Wolfsbane potion.” He looked back at Remus. “I didn’t realize… There’s only enough for one dose.”

“Bill doesn’t fully change,” Remus said. “I don’t know what effect—“

Bill crossed the space between them in two large steps. “I don’t understand.”

“This is my first attempt,” Draco said, plainly speaking to Remus, ignoring Bill. “But I can work out any kinks between now and next month.” He paused. “Assuming you choose to accept it, of course.”

“Why should he?” Bill asked. “Why this sudden gesture of friendship when none of us has seen hide nor hair of your black hide since after…” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Why should we trust you?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “I don’t see how it’s particularly any of your business,” he said simply. “Why so concerned, Weasley? You can't even be bothered to be that concerned about your own family.”

Anger flashed across Bill’s features. “You don’t know anything about my family,” he growled.

“No?” Draco said. “Perhaps not.” He turned back to Remus. “The choice, I think, is ultimately yours.”

“You didn’t answer his question,” Remus said. Draco blinked at him. “Why?” Remus asked. Then he clarified: “Why now?”

Draco looked suddenly uncomfortable. “It occurred to me that I had never attempted this particular potion,” he said. “I enjoy a challenge.”

Remus looked at him, certain that wasn’t the only reason, but unwilling to push the young man in front of him too far, afraid of scaring him away.

“And…” Draco glanced at Bill uneasily. “You showed me a kindness,” he added reluctantly. “I would like to repay that debt.”

“There’s no debt,” Remus assured him. “But I will gladly accept this. Thank you.”

Draco nodded curtly. “Let me know how it goes. There are always some adjustments, attuning the amount of aconite to the individual.” He looked over at Bill again, considering. “I might even be able to devise something to relieve your symptoms,” he said. “If you were interested.”

Bill didn’t reply, crossing his arms again, and leaning against the wall. Draco shrugged.

“I should go.” He turned back to the fireplace.

“Thank you, Draco,” Remus said as Draco scattered a pinch of floo powder onto the flames and stepped into the fire.

“You’re welcome,” Draco replied with a note of surprise in his voice, before disappearing in a rush of green flame.

“Want to tell me what the bloody fuck that was all about?” Bill asked.

“Not particularly.” Remus unstoppered the vial, tilting his head back as he swallowed the contents in two enormous gulps, grimacing at the foul taste that time had done nothing to improve.

“Don’t worry,” Bill said dryly. “I’ll avenge you.”

Remus wiped his mouth on his sleeve indelicately feeling the potion roiling in his belly, fighting down nausea. “He switched sides, if you recall,” Remus said.

“That doesn’t make him trustworthy,” Bill countered. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Which might be fairly far, actually. He’s duplicitous and a Death Eater.”

“Harry trusts him.”

“Harry hates him.”

“You might be surprised.” Remus grabbed for his jacket, slipping it on.

“We’re still going?” Bill asked. Remus nodded. “You don’t trust his motives, either.”

“Bill,” Remus said patiently. “The potion is always a bit iffy the first time. I’m just being cautious.”

Bill planted himself, clearly indicating that he was going nowhere without some answers.

Remus sighed to himself. After Fleur was killed, Remus had watched his young friend turn away, become a monster far worse than the one he helped to contain every month. Since then he’d watched the grief and guilt, the anguish and lingering anger eating Bill from within, driving him away from his friends and family.

“There is such a thing as forgiveness, Bill,” Remus said wearily.

Bill’s posture softened slightly. “How do you know who deserves it?”

Remus smiled at him. “They ask.”


	7. Promises

Draco stood in the doorway to Harry’s bedroom, arms and ankles crossed, leaning on the doorframe. Harry had his head stuck in the wardrobe; every few moments, another piece of clothing would come flying out, landing haphazardly in and around the open suitcase on his bed. Robes, socks, boxers, a pair of holey denims that were almost certainly from Harry’s days of living with the Dursleys. Draco scowled.  
  
“So that’s it, then, is it?” he asked. Harry whirled around so quickly, Draco never even saw him draw his wand.  
  
“Merlin in a teacup!” Harry exclaimed, clutching his chest when he saw who it was.  
  
“Big Bad Bill says the word and you go gallivanting off on whatever fool’s errand he sets for you.” Draco narrowed his eyes. “What is it with you and Weasleys?”  
  
“Where the fuck did you come from?” Harry asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You scared the shit out of me.”  
  
Draco didn’t feel the need to respond. They stared at one another for a long moment before Harry looked away first. He always did.  
  
“Look, I was going to tell you,” he began.  
  
“I’m sure you were,” Draco said. “I can picture it now: I receive a hastily written letter that reads, ‘Dear Malfoy. Sorry I broke our agreement, but I’ve always been a hypocrite, and just assume everyone will forgive me anyway. Sincerely, Potter.”  
  
Potter stood up and took a step towards him. “That’s not how it — I’m not a hypocrite!”  
  
“You are and always have been,” Draco countered, pushing himself off the doorframe and stepping into the room. “Poster boy for Dumbledore’s special brand of willful ignorance and selective morality.”  
  
“Oh, you’re one to talk!” Potter yelled, taking another step so that they were face to face. “I’d watch where I was throwing those stones if I were you, Malfoy; I’m not the one who switched sides when the tides started to turn.”  
  
“At least I made my own choice,” Draco said, his voice low and quiet. “At least I chose not to be led around by the man convinced he could write my destiny for me.”  
  
There was a flash of movement, and for a moment, Draco thought Potter was going to punch him. He drew his wand and leaped back, his muscles finding a dueling stance without his mind ever acknowledging the instruction. In the space of a breath, they were facing one another, wands drawn, hearts pounding.  
  
“What are you going to do?” Draco drawled, a smile creeping across his dry lips. “Hex me until you feel you’ve regained the moral high ground?”  
  
Potter took a deep breath and straightened. He tossed his wand onto the bed and deliberately turned his back to Draco. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” he said.  
  
Slowly, Draco allowed his body to relax, his wand arm to drop to his side, though his fingers still fisted the ebony so that his knuckles were white. He knew he should go. There was nothing to be gained by remaining, no honor in as much as admitting defeat by continuing the conversation, but his feet remained rooted to the floor.  
  
Potter sat on the edge of the bed again, rubbing his hand over his face. Draco could just make out the faint outline of the words carved into his skin there.  _I will not tell lies…_  
  
“What do I do?” Harry asked. He looked up at Draco, his expression set in stone, a look Draco remembered from long nights, years ago, as someone read a casualty report or talked tactics for the following morning. “We said we’d leave the dead to the dead,” he said, “but there are ghosts waiting for me everywhere here. Bill Weasley is only one.”  
  
“Bill Weasley is a grief-stricken fool,” Draco spat, more vehemently than he’d intended. “He wants everyone to suffer because he suffers, wants the world to burn because he’s been burned.”  
  
“Sounds familiar,” Harry said.  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco retorted. “You’ve never wanted the world to burn. You want to  _fix_  it. To  _save_  it. If it were up to you, we’d all be up to our eyeballs in rainbows and puppies.”  
  
Harry snorted, then said, “I wasn’t talking about me.”  
  
Draco narrowed his eyes.  
  
“The thing is,” Harry continued, “I saved the world. And now that’s how they all see me. The guy who saved the world. Why shouldn’t they expect me to do it again?”  
  
“Because that’s rubbish,” Draco replied. He paused, then sat on the foot of the bed, trying to touch as little as possible. “You didn’t perform some miracle. You killed a man. End of story.”  
  
Harry shook his head. “That’s why I like you, Draco. You don’t mince your words.”  
  
“You asked what you do,” Draco said. “You tell them to fuck off is what you do.”  
  
“Be like you, you mean,” Harry said. “Sever all ties.”  
  
“Are you saying they aren’t severed already?”  
  
Harry sat very still for a moment. “No,” he said. “If they were, Bill wouldn’t have asked me to go, and I wouldn’t have said yes.” He stood up and began throwing clothes into the suitcase that had missed the first time.  
  
“That’s it then,” Draco said, standing. “Good to know where things stand.” Harry looked up at him quizzically. “You’ll keep a promise to Bill Weasley, but not to me,” Draco clarified.  
  
“I can do both,” Harry said. “I’m not going to get sucked in—“  
  
“You already are,” Draco said. With the angry snap of a sudden Disapparation, he was gone.


	8. Still Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This takes place before the events of this story, but happens in the same universe, so I decided to archive it here. 
> 
> From the original: "A bit of explaination is in order for this fic.
> 
> First and foremost, HAPPY BIRTHDAY KRIS! I know it's come and gone in your neck of the date line, but it's not quite even the 8th here yet and I'm posting you birthday fic. Go me! And go you for making it to your 24th year, sanity intact. =D
> 
> Second, I combined two prompts on this one, polypaston's and krislaughs'. I hope you'll forgive me. In return, you both get a fic that is about four times longer than any of the others I've written for this challange so far. =) Took a little liberty with both of your prompts. Hope you don't mind. They were BRILLIANT prompts. =D
> 
> Third, the idea for a Kirke/Sloper OTP came from a single scene in Sect where Kris, while betaing, kept making slashy remarks about the two beaters on the Quidditch team. I like Jack and Andrew, and I've given them distinct personalities in Sect and Kris kept telling me I needed to write their opus. So here it is, darling."

Jack was alone when the news came. That was for the best, because it meant that no one but Ginny saw him cry. He wasn't sure he could have bucked up and made a good impression in front of Neville or Remus or even Harry. Though Harry would probably have understood. They had all seen him cry; it was part of what made him so easy to follow.  
  
Jack didn't really remember much of the conversation. He remembered that it had been late afternoon, that the light had been coming in the window behind Ginny's head lighting up all the fine hairs around her face. She said something about a raid and an accident, and then all he heard was 'Andrew'.  
  
He didn't even realize he was crying until he saw the dark spots on the infirmary blanket from his tears. All he could think was, _I wasn't there..._  
  
~  
  
"I can't fucking _breathe_!" Jack shouted against the thick down-filled sleeping bag his friends were currently trying to suffocate him with. His voice sounded muffled even to his own ears, his words swathed in polyester and feathers and fighting against the muted cacophony of laughter all around him. Someone sat on his foot. "Ouch, dammit! Get _off_ of me, you bastards!"  
  
Brushing his nose against the cool teeth of the zipper, Jack inhaled deeply from the little air making its way through the tiny gaps and fought down panic. He didn't like enclosed spaces very much, but he was trying very hard not to think about that.  
  
Mustering his strength, he rolled suddenly to one side, dislodging the two or three boys into a landslide of curses and laughter. His movement no longer as restricted, he quickly grasped the zipper pull, yanking the teeth apart with one hard heave and gulping in the cool, fresh air as he blinked in the suddenly blinding light of Andrew's bedroom.  
  
With a loud whoop, Andrew launched himself off of his tall sleigh bed and tackled Jack, sending him sprawling into the pile of bodies already rolling and laughing on the floor.  
  
"Enough!" Andrew's mum stood in the doorway. Her tone was firm, but her eyes were twinkling. "We said you could have some mates over, Andy, not a herd of wrestling hippogriffs!"  
  
" _Mum_ ," Andrew whined. "Don't call me that!"  
  
"Headlock!" Walter shrieked, grabbing Terrance around the neck and swinging him to the ground.  
  
"Enough!" Mrs. Kirke said again, putting her hands on her hips. "Lights out, you hooligans. I don't want to hear another peep until morning, or it's cold cereal for the lot of you while the rest of us have waffles."  
  
"Peep!" Geoff squeaked, and suddenly the room was a chorus of chirps and peeping. Mrs. Kirke rolled her eyes and waved her hand at the lamps, dimming them before she shut the door.  
  
The threat of having to watch Andrew's parents and sisters eat waffles while they had none kept the whispers and peeps to a barely audible level, and the other boys reluctantly rolled towards their own beds. When Andrew had invited him over to stay the night, Jack had, of course, brought his bedroll; so had all of the other boys. What he hadn't expected was for each of theirs to unfold into an assortment of elaborate camp beds. Walter's looked like a regular cot and smelled strongly of wet dog, Terrance's was remarkably similar to the four poster beds they all had in Gryffindor tower, only done in Slytherin colors, and Geoff's was like some sort of unholy union between an army cot and a beanbag chair with squishy bits in unlikely places.  
  
They had all been surprised and fascinated when Jack's Muggle sleeping bag turned out to be just that: a bag to sleep in. And that was when they'd decided to see how long he could last inside of it with one of them sitting on either end.  
  
"Oy, Sloper," Andrew whispered, hanging halfway off his own bed in an attempt to nudge Jack with his foot. "Alright?"  
  
"Alright," Jack whispered back.  
  
"You're not cold down there on the floor?"  
  
"No," Jack lied. "My dad and I have slept outside in these in freezing weather. This is nothing."  
  
Andrew didn't reply right away. Then, "Can I try it?"  
  
"Wha--"  
  
But Andrew was already rolling off his bed with a thump and fiddling with the zipper.   
  
"No," Jack protested, "pull it down, not out -- there. But it's not really big enough--"  
  
The sleeping bag was, however, big enough, and suddenly, there was Andrew, squirming and wiggling and yanking the zipper up around them both. He poked Jack in the ribs and Jack shook his head in wonder at the delighted grin on his friend's face.  
  
"Well?" Jack asked. "What do you think?"  
  
"It's _brilliant_ ," Andrew replied with a happy little wriggle. "Like being a caterpillar all done up in a cocoon."  
  
In the darkness, Geoff snored.   
  
"Is he always this loud?" Walter demanded.  
  
"Every bloody night," Andrew groaned. "It's like living with a fog horn."  
  
Terrance snickered and shifted in his bed. "Paul Parkinson snores too. Only his ends with a whistle." Terry gave a great snort and then let the air out slowly through his nose with a high pitched hum causing the others to laugh. Soon, things were quiet again except for Geoff's rumbling snores.  
  
"Why didn't you invite Colin?" Jack asked quietly as Andrew kicked him again, trying to settle into a more comfortable position in the sleeping bag.  
  
"I did. Mum said I couldn't invite you and Geoff and not invite him, but his da wouldn't let him come." He rolled over to look at Jack with sleepy eyes, nearly taking Jack's nose off with his elbow in the process. "Your parents are awfully cool for Muggles," he said around an enormous yawn.   
  
Jack shrugged. This was high praise from a mate who had grown up so isolated in the wizard world that he actually believed it when his uncle Marty told him that Muggles all had purple fur and a yellow horn growing out of their foreheads.  
  
"They're alright," Jack said. "They don't really get it -- magic, I mean, but I guess they just want me to be happy."   
  
"Mmmfh," Andrew agreed, already half asleep.  
  
~  
  
Harry came to see him after a couple of days had passed. Jack was surprised once again at how much older he looked these days. He remembered the little party they had thrown in the basement kitchen a few months back to celebrate Harry's eighteenth birthday. Andrew had given him a blank, leather bound Quidditch playbook with the word 'Captain' embossed on the cover in gold.   
  
"For later -- you know. When we're winning the World Cup for England. You and me, Captain." He suddenly adopted a serious face and snapped to attention with an elaborate salute.   
  
Harry had grinned at that, and it was the first time many of them had seen him smile in weeks.  
  
"Alright, mate?" Harry asked, sitting in the wooden chair by Jack's bed. The same chair where Ginny had sat only a few days earlier; the same chair where Andrew had sat only a few days before that.  
  
"Yeah," Jack said in a voice that was stronger than he felt. "Yeah, I'm alright."  
  
The two men were silent for a few moments, not looking at one another.   
  
"How did he... I mean..."  
  
"It was quick," Harry said, anticipating the question. "The ceiling beam fell right on him. Moody -- Moody said he didn't feel a thing. Probably didn't even know what was happening."  
  
Jack nodded, wondering if that was supposed to make him feel better.  
  
"I'm sorry, Jack," Harry said suddenly, looking up at him at last. "It's my fault."  
  
"What?" Jack was confused. "I thought -- I mean, Ginny said you weren't even there."  
  
"I wasn't," Harry said quickly, "but I should have been. I shouldn't have told him--"  
  
Jack shook his head quickly and cut him off. "Don't do that, Harry." Harry blinked at him, surprised. "You're always looking for ways to blame this shit on yourself, but it isn't your fault. Andrew is... Look, we all know he was reckless. You can't blame yourself for everything that happens -- it's war! It's not your fault."  
  
Harry continued to stare at him, and Jack grew more and more uncomfortable in his gaze. His bright green eyes seemed to darken, deepen, become hollow and distant. He sighed. "You're wrong," Harry said softly. "But anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."  
  
Before Jack could argue, he was gone.  
  
~  
  
"Jack!"  
  
Jack whirled around at the sound of his name and saw Andrew pounding up the corridor, his red Quidditch robes flying out behind him as he ran. For a moment, Jack held the image of some absurd action hero from a comic book running towards him, mahogany hair sticking out at all angles, dark eyes blazing.   
  
"Where the hell have you been?" Andrew demanded. He ran straight up to Jack and shoved him hard in the chest.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"What'd you mean," Andrew shouted, "disappearing like that? I couldn't _find_ you. Where the bloody fuck--" Andrew had him by the shoulders and was gripping his arms painfully  
  
"I helped them carry him to the infirmary," Jack interrupted. "Harry couldn't because of his arm, and Ginny was too upset, and..."  
  
"Then that..." Andrew's eyes were darting around his face, and Jack suddenly realized that the strange look in them was fear. "That isn't your blood, then?" Jack shook his head slowly, realizing that he was covered in the stuff, and Andrew relaxed his grip. He released Jack's shoulders and took a couple of steps towards the infirmary door, tearing his gaze away from Jack's face only for a moment.  
  
"So," Andrew said quietly. They stared at one another across the hallway.   
  
"So what?" Jack asked. He leaned heavily against the wall, frowning and shifting when something dug painfully into his leg. It was only then that he realized that he was still wearing his Quidditch gear. He plucked at the laces of his wrist guard. They had worked themselves into a terrible knot.  
  
"Will he, you know...?"  
  
"They think he'll live," Jack said flatly. "At least, that's what they told Harry and Hermione."  
  
"Fuck," Andrew said, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor. "I didn't think that... I mean I never dreamed..."  
  
"Yeah," Jack replied. None of them had ever dreamed that they could be attacked here, in broad daylight, in the middle of a bloody Quidditch match. Death Eaters skulked in darkness, turned up in places like Knockturn Alley and the Hogshead and the Forbidden Forest, but they didn't come to Hogwarts.   
  
They didn't try to kill the Gryffindor Quidditch captain and very nearly succeed in killing his Keeper instead.  
  
"Fuck," Andrew repeated. It seemed that was all he was capable of saying.  
  
"Yeah," Jack agreed. He was still too stunned to really process the information. There had been so much blood. _So_ much blood. Blood on the red robes, and in Ron's red hair. Blood on Hermione's face and blood on Ginny's hands as they tried to stop the bleeding. And blood pounding in Harry's eyes when he saw his best friend fall.  
  
Just then, the door to the infirmary opened, and Madam Pomfrey shoved Harry and Hermione out into the hall. Harry's right arm was in a sling, wrapped in bandages to the shoulder, and he was leaning heavily on Hermione's shoulder.  
  
Andrew scrambled to his feet and surreptitiously ducked under Harry's good arm, relieving Hermione of her burden. She stumbled forward, looking dazed, and Jack caught her.  
  
"How is he?" Jack asked, offering Hermione an arm to lean on.   
  
"I don't know," she said, her voice devoid of emotion, her eyes empty of tears. "We... we'll know more in the morning."  
  
"You two look like you've been taking tea with a boggart!" Andrew announced in his booming voice as he steered Harry towards the stairs. "I think back to the tower and a couple of bottles of butterbeer--"   
  
But Harry stopped when they were facing Jack and Hermione. "Thank you," he said hoarsely, looking Jack directly in the eye. "I won't forget this."  
  
Jack just nodded, not knowing what to say.  
  
There were tears in his captain's eyes.  
  
"Both of you," Harry said, turning to Andrew. "I saw what you did with that Bludger, Kirke. They caught Dolohov because of you."  
  
Andrew grinned. "Don't mention it," he said, coaxing Harry forward with his usual easy grace. "We know what side we're on, and now everybody else knows it too."  
  
~  
  
"Are you fucking kidding me?"  
  
Ron shook his head, choosing diplomatically to stare down at the chessboard rather than meet Jack's infuriated gaze.  
  
"He wasn't even supposed to _go_?"   
  
"He wasn't on the roster," Ron said, prodding one of his bishops forward to smash Jack's last remaining rook.   
  
"Then why the bloody hell--"  
  
Ron shrugged. "You know Kirke," he said simply.  
  
"Yeah," Jack grumbled. "Stupid bastard."  
  
Ron snorted back a laugh.  
  
"He's always looking for some kind of glory," Jack said, angrily thrusting one of his pawns right into the path of Ron's queen. "I mean, it's always the same. On the Quidditch pitch, in his lessons -- but you'd think he'd draw the line at fighting the goddamned Death Eaters! Couldn't he see that this isn't some kind of game he could win points at?"  
  
Ron didn't reply, and Jack took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The thin white curtains on the infirmary windows fluttered in a brief summer breeze.  
  
"He was always trying to prove himself," he continued. His voice lost its edge as he reminisced. "He's the only boy and the youngest with four older sisters. Did you know that?"  
  
"I think Charlie dated one of them for a while," Ron said with a sigh.  
  
"I think he just wanted his parents to notice him in all of that," Jack said. "So he was as loud and as rowdy as he could be. Jump first. Ask questions later."  
  
"Helluva good Beater," Ron said. "You and he were the second best Beater team Hogwarts ever had -- after Fred and George."  
  
Jack shook his head slowly. "Wasn't me," he said softly. "I was just there so he'd have someone to hit the Bludger to. It was always him."  
  
"Checkmate," Ron announced.  
  
Jack looked down at the board, unsurprised to see most of the white pieces lying in ruins.   
  
"You're getting better," Ron said, grinning and gathering his things, "when you don't get distracted, that is."  
  
Jack nodded. "Next time we'll talk about the weather."  
  
Ron put a hand on his shoulder for a moment, and then grabbed his crutches, leveraging himself out of his chair. "You're getting better," he repeated as he hobbled towards the door. "Just remember that."  
  
~  
  
For Jack's seventeenth birthday, Andrew insisted on getting him properly smashed. He insisted that the only way to get properly smashed was to go on a pub crawl, and since Jack hadn't yet got his Apparating license, he insisted that the only way to go on a proper pub crawl was to do so in Muggle London. From Grimmauld Place it wouldn't be a long walk there, and the twins had told him all about how to hail a Taxi Cap for a ride home.  
  
Jack had been apprehensive. Releasing Andrew among the Muggles seemed about as good an idea as releasing a pixie in a china cupboard, but in the end he gave in. He always did.  
  
After about their third pub, Andrew got a very anxious look in his eye, asking Jack how Muggle toilets worked, at which point, Jack very nearly fell off his stool laughing. Reassured that he would be able to work a Muggle toilet, Andrew tossed Jack his wallet and told him to buy them another round.  
  
When he returned, Jack passed him a pint, his wallet, and a rectangle of red foil with a hideous drawing of a naked woman on it.  
  
"What's this?" he asked playfully.   
  
Andrew promptly choked on his beer. "Bollocks," he sputtered. "Where the hell did you find that?"  
  
"In your wallet. Behind the picture of your mum."  
  
Andrew shoved him and Jack had to clutch the edge of the bar to keep from sliding off of his stool for the second time in one night.  
  
"It's for emergencies," Andrew said, a wide lascivious grin spreading across his face. "I mean, what if I meet some nice Muggle girl in one of these pubs--"  
  
"In one of _these_ pubs? What exactly is your definition of nice?"  
  
"And she wants to, you know, take me back to her flat or sommat. I've gotta be prepared, right?"  
  
Andrew was beginning to slur his words and slip even deeper into the country accent his upbringing sometimes betrayed. He took a long swig of his beer and leaned over conspiratorially. "Anyway, that's a _special_ kind, that is. Not like you'd be likely to get 'round here."  
  
Jack frowned at him, trying to focus on his friend's ever swaying face. Andrew was a blur of dark eyes, thick eyebrows, perfectly straight nose -- a rarity on a Beater. "What's so special about it?" he asked.  
  
Andrew leaned even closer to him and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "It vibrates," he said in a very low whisper, his breath tickling the little hairs on the side of Jack's neck.  
  
This time, Jack did fall off his chair, but he wasn't laughing.  
  
The slam of the car door jolted Jack back to himself, and he wondered how exactly Andrew had managed to find them a cab at this hour.   
  
"Corner of Cannery and Grimmauld Place," Andrew said to the driver, and Jack lurched back into the smelly upholstery as the car accelerated.   
  
"Good birthday?" Andrew asked, leaning against the seats.  
  
"The best," Jack said, a very stupid grin working its way across his face. "But you didn't find any girls."  
  
Andrew shrugged and closed his eyes, his thick dark lashes creating two perfect crescent moons against his olive skin and impossibly high cheekbones.   
  
Jack sighed happily. "I'm glad you didn't," he said.  
  
"How come?" Andrew asked.  
  
Jack felt his mouth go dry. He blinked several times, his brain trying to work through the haze of too much alcohol and smoke. He hadn't really just _said_ that, had he?  
  
"Nevermind," he said softly.   
  
Andrew didn't ask again.  
  
~  
  
Jack stared at Andrew's peaceful face, unable to believe what he was seeing. Two perfect crescents of black lashes lay against his unmarred skin.  
  
"He looks fine," Jack said hollowly. "Normal, even."  
  
Ginny squeezed his hand. "He is normal," she said quietly. "His mind's still all there."  
  
"You told him," Jack said, suddenly feeling an inexplicable rise of panic, "you told him why I couldn't come, didn't you? Ron said some of his memory was gone, so he might not have remembered that I--"  
  
"We told him," Ginny said reassuringly.   
  
Jack turned back to the little window in the door. "Does he--" He stopped, unable to quite finish the sentence around the horrible lump in his throat. "Does he remember--"  
  
"You were the first person he asked for," Ginny replied before he could even finish.   
  
"And you told him why--"  
  
"You can tell him yourself," Ginny said firmly, yanking open the hospital room door, "as soon as he wakes up."  
  
Jack clutched his cane fiercely as he stepped into the room. The sound of Andrew's breathing was deafening in the quiet, and Jack found himself unsure of whether the sound was a relief or a burden.   
  
Leaning heavily on the cane he was still not accustomed to, Jack limped across to the single chair next to the bed and lowered himself into it. Andrew's eyelids fluttered, and Jack held his breath until they stilled.  
  
"Take your time, mate," he said in a breathy whisper. "I'll be here."  
  
~  
  
"You are an idiot, and I don't know why I ever listen to you," Jack grunted, wrestling with the struggling Bludger in his arms.   
  
"I'm fucking brilliant and you know it," Andrew retorted, kicking the lid of the trunk open and helping Jack strap the Bludger down.   
  
"Let's get some fresh air, he says," Jack said, impersonating Andrew's accent. He leaned back against the lockers and dropped his broom. "Let's go for a ride."  
  
"It was damned fine idea."  
  
"Let's just get a Bludger out and have a proper practice."  
  
"Hey," Andrew said, dropping his own broom into his locker, "it isn't my fault the Bludger went crazy!" He glanced down at the trunk as it gave an ominous rattle. "Maybe it's gone a bit funny, being locked up all this time."  
  
Jack shook his head in disbelief. "And it would go _straight_ for McGonagall's rooms."  
  
"Knows its enemy."  
  
"Do you have any idea what she would have done to us if we'd let a rogue Bludger crash into her sitting room? A rogue Bludger that is most certainly not supposed to be flying around with two seventh years who are also not supposed to be flying around as Quidditch has been _banned_ for more than a year now?"  
  
"I think I can guess. But it's criminal to outlaw Quidditch for so long! A man's got to fly."  
  
Jack shook his head. "You act like there isn't a war on all around us."  
  
"Well, somebody's got to." Andrew smirked. "It was fun though. Admit it."  
  
"I've never flown so hard in my life."  
  
"But it was fun."  
  
"You nearly gave me apoplexy with that dive you did."  
  
Andrew crossed the space between them and stubbed his finger against Jack's chest. "It was _fun_ , you fucking pansy."  
  
Jack raised one eyebrow very slowly, and then started to grin. "It was, wasn't it?"  
  
Suddenly, Jack wasn't sure what was happening. Andrew was too close to him. Pressed up against him. Kissing him, as a matter of fact. Jack blinked and Andrew pulled away.  
  
They stared at one another for a long silent moment.  
  
"What was that?" Jack asked quietly.  
  
"That," Andrew said, taking a small step backwards, "was a kiss, you wanker, and I'm a little disturbed to be having to explain it to you."  
  
Jack shook his head, amazed that Andrew was still able to be so glib after... after whatever that was.  
  
"A kiss," he repeated.   
  
"Yeah," Andrew said. He reached up and rubbed a thumb over his own lips. "That OK?"  
  
Jack stared at him.   
  
"Because this," Andrew gestured at the absurdly small space still between them, "is important. It's not like kissing Ginny Weasley behind the greenhouses."  
  
Jack started guiltily. "How did you know--"  
  
"The corn has ears and the potatoes have eyes, my friend. You should know this."  
  
"It didn't mean anything. I mean, it was just a... a thing. Everybody knows she fancies Harry anyway."  
  
"Everybody but Harry, it seems," Andrew said with a nod, still desperately close. "So why didn't you tell me about it yourself?"  
  
Jack shook his head. "I don't know," he said honestly.  
  
"I know."  
  
Andrew took a very slow, very deliberate step backward. "It's because this is _different_. It's not like a girl you grope behind the greenhouse or a chick you pick up in a pub, because when that's over, they're gone. But it's not like that with us."  
  
He looked directly into Jack's eyes, and Jack hardly dared to breath, afraid of breaking whatever spell Andrew was weaving all around them.   
  
"Because we'll always be there."  
  
~  
  
"Hey,"  
  
Jack's eyes snapped open in an instant and he found two deep brown eyes staring back at him. For a moment, he wondered if he were still dreaming.  
  
"Hey. "  
  
"You're still here?"   
  
Jack reached out and took Andrew's hand into his. "Of course I'm still here. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Fucking bored."  
  
"Good."  
  
Andrew raised his eyebrows at him. "Explain to me exactly how that's good."  
  
"When you get bored, you get mad."  
  
"So?"  
  
"When you get mad, you work harder."  
  
"Piss off."   
  
Jack grinned as Andrew squeezed his hand weakly. "Look, the angrier you get, the better it is for me. The sooner you're better, the sooner we can get out of this hell hole and go somewhere nice."  
  
"I won't be able to go anywhere," Andrew said with a scowl. "If you can't use your legs, you can't hang on to a broom."  
  
Jack rolled his eyes. "For a bright lad, you really are awfully thick. Riding a broom isn't the only way to get places."  
  
"It's the only way to fly."  
  
Jack shook his head. "Again, my friend, you are superbly wrong. I have heard tell of a little old wizard somewhere in Tibet who weaves the best damned flying carpets ever known to man."  
  
Andrew snorted. "Flying carpets. What do you think I am, some little old lady?"  
  
Jack laughed. "Alright then. No flying carpets. But we could still go to Tibet. We'll go to the Himalayas and sit on top of a mountain somewhere, and it'll be just like flying."  
  
Andrew smiled at him. "You're an utter git, you know that."  
  
"Course I do."  
  
"Good. And don't you for a minute think that just because some Healer with her hair on too tight says I'm not going to ride a broom again doesn't mean that's going to stop me. I mean, look at Ron. Look at you, for that matter." Andrew did look at him then, an old familiar smile lighting up his face. "You're still here."  
  
"Yeah," Jack said softly. "I'm still here."


End file.
